Healing, Who Needs Healing?
Scar wakes up- for the second time. 6:00 AM.
Seriously? Can’t a man just sleep in peace? …Well, he only has himself to blame for this dilemma.
He swipes up on his lock screen and opens X. Scar can’t stand the name change of the app but apparently, those eldritch horrors couldn’t stand the word ‘Twitter’ anymore. The first thing that greets him is a post from Gem. It’s a photo of her doing paperwork, the confidential parts scribbled out with a thick line of black pixels. The post is captioned; hi guyss! guess whos getting that raise lol @ScarGoodtimes(@1i43_sg726176656e).
3k likes, 164 retweets. A hefty amount for something that isn’t LIFE Games related. Scar still remembers when he’d constantly tweet about his life in Trader Scar’s and even the smallest sentences would rack up thousands of likes. Not that he cared about fame at the time- Talking to the shadows isn’t exactly the best thing for one’s sanity, after all.
Scar adds his like to the tweet before scrolling to the post below and being greeted by a picture of a cute cat. Like.
Next, a post from a burner account trying to figure out who CuteGuy was after his debut. Seems like the word’s already spreading, somehow. Block, scroll.
Worship of Watchers by the government… Eugh. If only he could block the government. Unfortunately with this rickety account of his, it’s not physically possible.
Old post from The Scorpion. It’s showing off a black Cadillac that the latter had bought for Wild Life and his family bit. Scroll.
Weird thirst trap of the Tiger Moth. How does one get this many clips of the guy anyway? Scar probably shouldn’t question it, the government plaster the winner’s face all over the news, like the moth Reborn is a shiny chalice proving that the government can do whatever the hell they want.
Post from Xelqua- Wait, post from Xelqua? Scar almost audibly gasps as he sits up straight and squints at the text, almost as if it would disappear in front of his eyes. The Watcher hadn’t posted a single thing in over 5 years, leading to the spread of rumors of the deity being banished or even dying.
The tweet itself was simple, barely a tweet at all. It was a retweet of a post from the official Watcher joint account. His jaw could have basically dislocated at the sight of the message. It read that Xelqua, the up-bringer and eventual downfall of LIFE, one of the first Watchers according to his high school history lessons, had been kicked from the circle. Nothing more, nothing less.
A brief thread was left by Xelqua; formerly Xelqua? Who knows. He’d left a message, basically confirming that he was good as gone, dead to the Watchers. He still had most reign over any planet or lifeform he’d made due to the Watchers not wanting the universe to fall apart.
I guess I’m not going anywhere then. Why even announce such a thing if nothing was to be changed? Scar thought bitterly to himself, swiping out of the app.
Unfortunately, only 7 minutes had passed since he’d opened this forsaken app. Scar was almost considering going back to sleep before he suddenly pauses, his hand half reaching out for his blanket.
A rhythmic tapping noise was thudding off in the living room. Judging by the steady tempo, whatever was banging around out there had been going on for a while. Scar supposes that he was just tuning the noise out earlier.
He slowly gets up, avoiding every little floorboard he knew tended to creak when stepped on, gingerly reaching for the doorknob and slowly twisting, prying the door open as gently as he could.
On the couch, Grian was focused on the gun in his lap, using a pointy screwdriver that Scar never ever recalled having to carve something into that gun of his. The former was using the end of a magazine to drive the screwdriver into the metal of the gun, flinching slightly when getting close to hitting his fingers. His phone’s flashlight was lighting the room, a ghastly glow casting onto the ceiling, barely enough to see Grian’s face.
How does someone casually carve a gun without special equipment on a couch?! Scar thought to himself, feeling awfully bemused as Grian started softly humming to himself. And where in the world did he get a screwdriver?!
Grian eventually notices Scar, looking up and waving slightly while trying to not drop the screwdriver in his hands. “Hey Scar. Whatcha doin’ up so early?”
“What are you doing up so early?” He retorts, stepping past his doorframe and peering at the gold metal of the gun. A design with small hearts and wings was slowly scratching its way into the surface, almost too perfect to notice what tools were being used for such a piece. “Well, clearly I know what you’re doing but why? And how?”
The shorter snorts, tapping his stinger on the couch. “I woke up and decided that this Glock I.. borrowed permanently looked kind of boring. I hope you don’t mind me using one of your screwdrivers.”
“No no, that's fine. My question is how you’re using a rusty screwdriver to do that?!”
“Talent.”
Scar raises his eyebrow dubiously. However, a minute later he had walked over to the fridge, peering at the sad, bare plastic shelves. “Want anything to eat or drink?”
“Water would be fine, thanks.”
“Alri- Ouch!” Scar stands up but bangs his head on the top of the fridge. Grian turns around before erupting into a symphony of laughter. Grian slaps the couch as his screwdriver falls from his hand, head falling backward while still giggling and cackling.
“Scar, are you oka- Haha!- okay?” Grian gasps through never-ending giggles.
“Yep. Thanks for laughing at me, buddy!” Scar grins while rubbing his head, sarcasm and playfulness dripping off his words. After his laughter finally ends, Grian ends up coming over and checking if Scar was actually okay to which the latter had confirmed he was fine. Scar grabs a bottle of water from the fridge and tosses it at Grian, who proceeds to flawlessly catch it. He grabs a bottle for himself and the two sit on the couch, well, not before Grian puts away his rusty, pointy screwdriver anyway.
“You’ve never really told me anything about your past, Grian. If it’s not weird to you at all, then could you offer me some stuff about yourself?” Scar asks, twisting the cap to his water back on.
“Oh, erm..” Grian thinks for what feels like a second too long before coming up with an answer. “Well, I went to a community college. So, it was free.”
Community college? Scar’s never heard of a community college before. Maybe Grian meant the welfare colleges that all Reborns had to attend instead of normal people school? Still, no one calls them community colleges.
“Community college? What do you mean?”
“...Y’know, the free ones?” Grian responds hesitantly, avoiding eye contact. “I always called them that to make it seem more normal.”
“Ah.” That makes more sense now. “Whad'ya major in?”
“I was considering some form of art but I decided on architecture. It came easier to me.” The shorter shrugs, trying to not lay on Scar’s wings as he shifts around on the small couch.
“Woah, I thought they only taught that at prestigious schools! Do you have any family members of the sort? Brothers or sisters?”
Grian’s eyebrow furrows as he leans forward a bit, concentrating as if rummaging through his memories before sighing and sitting up straight again. “Used to. They’re all long dead by now though.”
“Yikes, sorry for your loss.”
“It’s whatever, can’t even remember them at this point.” Grian murmurs before changing the topic. “What about you, what’d you major in? Play any sports?
“Yeah. Psychology. I did play a lot of volleyball in school though, I was pretty good!” Scar grins at the faint memory of being an outside hitter and being darn good at it too. Then he sighs and his smile falters slightly, “‘Was’ being the keyword. They banned us from playing sports a few weeks before I graduated.”
“Oh, that’s sad. I’m sure you were great.” Grian says, patting Scar on the shoulder. “Also, psychology? I’d assume that would be a boring topic for someone like you. Not to be rude though!”
The two engage in idle chatter for a while, each learning a bit more about each other. For some reason, Scar always had an itching feeling about any experience Grian would talk about. Almost like it was a heap of white lies; weird enough to not be possible on this planet but described in too much detail to be fake.
“Right, how’s your wound? Doesn’t hurt or anything… right?” Grian prompts, his stinger whacking the hard armrest of the couch as the shorter peers at Scar’s shoulder. Ouch.
“Doesn’t hurt or nothing. The stitches are a bit uncomfortable though.” Scar says, an epiphany of butterflies filling his stomach at the thought of the memory. Weird, someone giving another person stitches shouldn’t be... Special in any way, should it?
“Of course they’re uncomfortable! It’s a literal thread in your- OH MY GOD!” Grian’s retort was cut off by a blare on Scar’s phone. Once again, Scar scrambles to turn it off before reading the notification over.
“The Tiger Moth just killed someone. God dammit, we gotta go.” He mutters, standing up to change. Before he can walk off, Grian grabs his wrist while shaking his head.
“No, Scar. You have a wound. You need to heal, this moth man can wait.” He says, the grin on his face turning into a nervous smile.
Scar shakes Grian off. “Sorry, that’s just how it goes ‘round here. I gotta go help, it’s my duty. You can here stay if you want.”
“Scar, please. If that thing tears open you might bleed to death. Or get an infection. People can wait, you just gotta let it heal.”
“Drop it, would you? It’s my job and my choice. Someone died, Grian. I can’t another person’s life as well.”
“You’re being unreasonable!” Grian semi-shouts, standing up and placing his hand on Scar’s shoulder. “I’ll take care of it if you want, just rest for a bit.”
“Grian, let go.” Scar says, turning around to face the man. “You don’t get it! If I’m gonna have these dumb wings, then I’m gonna put them to use. I’m not letting another person get hurt because of me.” His wings flare out, opening as Scar starts walking backward toward his room.
“You? You haven’t even done anything to make someone get hurt!”
“That’s the problem! I haven’t done anything! Even if it’s not harmful I’m not helping anyone at all, I’m useless.” Scar cocks his head to the side before snorting humorlessly. “I’m the dumb raven that people throw rocks at, nothing more than a ‘silly guy that gets hurt easily’. No one has a -- smidge of faith in whatever I do. It’s always ‘Wow, Scar’s gonna die!’ or ‘Don’t let him do that, he’s gonna get himself killed!’ That’s who I am at this point, right? Even -- Even if I deserve a crown a bunch of flowers, no one cares! So, if no one does, I’ll show everyone that I’m not a worthless piece of- of shit. It’s my problem that the Corrupteds are running around when I could’ve at least helped them! I had the chance and I turned it down. I should've and now it’s come back to bite me, Grian. I have to do this, I’m sorry.”
He takes a breath in, choosing to ignore the handful of stammers and the way his rant curved into something horridly desperate. Grian stares at him, mouth agape. He shakes his head a few times before staring Scar in the eyes. “Scar, I don’t exactly understand whatever’s going on, but I promise you, it’s not your fault. Just back down for a while, alright? I’ll help you with your vigilante business, I’d kill them if you asked me to, Scar. Please don’t overwork yourself.”
Killing someone for a person like himself was ludicrous, delusional, even. However, Scar couldn't help feeling... Touched in some sort of twisted way. It was a kind-ish display of care that no one’s bothered to show him since Gem came around and gave him something to lose. Maybe he could add another person to that list.
“Okay fine, you’ve convinced me,” Scar says with a mixture of a sigh and a laugh. “I.. Guess I won’t go. I’ll call Lizzie to take care of it if she isn’t already on her way.” To look for me and send me to jail a small part of his brain whispered. He pushes the thought back for now and continues the short walk to his room.
“I’ll just go to sleep for now.” He’s not tired. “See ya!”